


Sub Rosa

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1830, Cosette buys a fan, and has a short conversation about mothers and motherlands.  In 1833, she tries to buy another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sub Rosa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feuillyova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyova/gifts).



> Thanks so much to genarti and pilferingapples for beta-ing and encouragement!

“Oh,” Cosette said, holding a fan up to the light coming through the window of the dusty atelier. She’d stopped here on an impulse—she hadn’t gone out with the idea of buying a fan, and if she had, she wouldn’t have come here. But she couldn’t help seeing, and walking in. Now Toussaint and the atelier’s owner waited patiently as Cosette examined the fan. “This is lovely—do you have one like it, but in softer colors?” The tortoiseshell brisé fan had small, white flowers, with circles of sharp-pointed petals. The flowers stood out against a rich red background. The red, she felt, was much too bold to complement her dresses, or suit her complexion, or, well, be quite _proper_ , even though she still thought it beautiful.

In an instant the owner produced another fan for her inspection. Another brisé fan made of thin tortoiseshell, with the same geometric white flowers, but on a background of pale blue, as fresh and soft as the sky on a spring morning.

“Yes,” Cosette said, with a smile. “The flowers are so charming—I haven’t seen any fans with such flowers before. I’ll have this one, if you please?”

The owner named his price, and Cosette agreed with no haggling, which made him beam. “Mademoiselle likes the flowers? The man who painted them is here today, I think— _hé_! Feuilly! Come here for a moment, if you please.”

A man of about thirty or thirty-five, with a smear of green paint on his cheek and another of pink on his nose, looked up. He did not look as if it pleased him especially, but he still rose, revealing a paint-spattered apron. 

“I don’t want to interrupt his work,” Cosette murmured, noting the man’s rather stern expression as he came over. 

“Nonsense, mademoiselle, he should know you liked his work—” The owner broke off as the man reached them. “Feuilly, this young lady is buying your fan, and she particularly liked your painting.”

“Oh,” said Feuilly. He still looked stern, but less so. Up close, the paint on his face made him look more…boyish. Cosette suppressed a giggle. “I—thank you, mademoiselle.”

“The flowers are lovely,” Cosette said, suddenly feeling shy. It was getting harder not to laugh nervously, but she managed it.

The owner turned away at that moment to look over another painter’s shoulder, and Feuilly, with a glance in his direction, said, with a sudden eagerness, “I didn’t design them, not truly. The flowers, I mean. They’re made by the people of Poland.”

“Oh!” Cosette smiled at him, pleased he was showing some warmth. It made him sound more like a little girl at the convent, showing Cosette a new ribbon, and not like a grown man of twice Cosette’s age. “Are you from Poland, monsieur?” The name Feuilly sounded very French, but it also sounded like a pet name someone might give a fan painter as a joke. Cosette found it amusing herself.

“No, but I needn’t be from there to feel their nation’s crafts deserve recognition,” Feuilly said, with even greater spirit, “or their nationhood itself.

“Are they under threat?” Cosette hazarded the question, utterly unsure of anything happening in Poland. It was—ruled by Russia? Or had been? Perhaps? She felt herself dismally ignorant, but Feuilly was so enthusiastic, it seemed a shame not to answer him with at least some courteous interest.

“Why, yes,” Feuilly said, surprised, “but they’re fighting back now. The Russians wanted to use the Polish army to suppress the revolt in Belgium and our own July uprising—” He scowled when he spoke of July, and Cosette knew it had something to do with politics, but she wasn’t sure what. “—but the Polish patriots wouldn’t have it, and it was the final spark in firing them up to rise against their rulers.”

“Our own—do you mean we would have had Polish soldiers invading here?” Cosette knew nothing of politics, of course, but she couldn’t help shudder at that. An invasion—she only dimly knew what that meant, but dimly was enough. She pictured all sorts of vague horrors.

“Yes, and if that frightens you, mademoiselle, then imagine how the Poles feel—they’ve been enduring that torment for years. It’s like watching your own mother beaten, so the refugees tell me.”

Cosette shifted her weight, and leaned against the counter. “Then…that’s very good of them, and very brave, to go to war in their own country because they don’t want to harm ours…I never knew my own mother,” she found herself adding, without meaning to say it. She thought again of the gentle, glowing figure she felt watching over her, like an angel or a saint, but the figure had no face or voice or name. It wasn’t enough. 

Feuilly looked at her. “Nor I mine, but at least I have a motherland. Someone with no mother can live, if they have a motherland, but someone with no motherland has no place to turn.”

“I—” In truth, Cosette had never thought about her motherland, and she didn’t know what she would say. But the atelier’s owner hurried back at that point, sparing her the necessity of finding words.

“Is he going on about Poland again?” The owner shook his head. “Now, Feuilly, the young lady doesn’t want to hear about that—”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t,” Cosette said, feeling as though she should take his part. It was like being back at the convent, telling small innocent fibs to the Mothers and Sisters to protect her playmates.

Feuilly just gave a shrug. “Good day to you, mademoiselle, and thank you for the kind words.” He turned back towards his table.

“He’s a good worker, mademoiselle, he’s just odd in some ways,” the owner said with an apologetic air.

“I found him most kind and charming.” Cosette spoke out of politeness, and then realized it wasn’t wholly a lie. Charming wasn’t the word—Feuilly was too, too _impassioned_ for that—but there was something appealing about him nonetheless.

She took her fan in its neat little bag from the owner with a word of thanks, and sought out Toussaint, who was deep in conversation with a passing butcher’s boy outside the door. It was still bright out, and if they reached home in time, her father might be coaxed into a walk in the Luxembourg.

***

Almost three years later, in the late summer of 1833, Cosette hurried to the atelier once more.

Last night she had wept her eyes out again, and only fallen asleep when she had no more tears in her. Marius had tried to comfort her, and she’d tried to let him. But at the end of it, she had asked him, as she had asked him before: “How? How could you think my father was a bad man? How could you think that for a moment?”

And as before, Marius said nothing. Oh, his mouth formed words, but he said nothing of consequence or meaning. “My dear Cosette, you don’t understand,” he had said.

“No, I don’t!” Cosette had replied. She had turned over, and shrugged off Marius’s arm when he slipped it around her.

In the morning her eyes were red. She rinsed them with water, but red they remained, a traitorous declaration that she’d spent the night in sorrow. At breakfast, grandfather Gillenormand had been loud and jocular, trying very hard to be cheering, she knew. He told her she had nothing to cry about, how dare she cry, with a handsome husband like Marius! Her father’s death was very sad, no doubt, but old men did die, he knew it himself, he was ninety-two and about to fall into his grave, and it was no use for the young to drown in tears over it, no, when he was gone, they should forget him! What was wrong with Marius, letting his pretty wife cry like this! Young men these days didn’t know what to do with a beautiful girl other than make her cry, it seemed. It was a shame, and if he, grandfather Gillenormand, had his youth back—

Cosette had borne it with as much good humor and grace as she could muster, forcing smiles and protesting that everything was all right. But when Marius escaped to his study, she escaped to the street. At least now that she was Madame la Baronne Pontmercy, she could go out alone.

Her black dress was heavy and uncomfortable in the heat of high summer. The seamstresses had made it out of thin material, but it still felt like Cosette was walking about inside a very closely tailored coffin. But never mind, she deserved to feel like this. Leaving the best father who ever was, the best man who ever was, the man who’d saved her from—

Cosette wasn’t sure what, exactly, her father had saved her from; all she knew was the memory of the sick, helpless terror buried deep in her heart. Once that feeling had been all Cosette knew, but after her father found her, she had never felt it again. He saved her, and she’d let him run away, live in solitary misery, and nearly die alone. 

By the time she reached the atelier where she had bought her lovely flowered fan, years ago, she was sticky with sweat and panting a little. Paris in the summertime blazed beautiful, but it was unpleasant to walk about it. She’d caught a fiacre, but even that was hot, even with the wind from the swift movement and the roof shading her from the sun.

The owner was still there. Cosette gave him a tentative smile, but he looked at her without recognition. “Good day, monsieur,” she said. “I came here years ago and bought a fan, a fan painted by a M. Feuilly. I liked it very much, it was a beautiful fan, and I—I need a mourning fan, now. I was hoping M. Feuilly could paint one for me.” 

“I’m sorry for your grief, mademoiselle…Feuilly? Oh, yes, I remember him.” The owner gave her an odd look. “But mademoiselle, he can’t paint you anything. He died.”

“I am madame,” Cosette said absently, “madame Pontmercy, and—what?”

“I beg your pardon, madame—and yes. He was killed in the June émeute last year.” Cosette was silent, and the owner decided to fill the space with words. “It’s a sad affair, but I’m not surprised, not surprised at all—Feuilly wasn’t the sort to sit quietly and let anything happen. He would throw himself in, even if he could go on very nicely without doing anything…”

“I—oh—yes—I see. Well, that…well, I should go now, then.”

“Oh, no, not at all, madame—look, one of my other painters can make you a fan. Aurélie! Come here, if you please, Aurélie. Aurélie is one of my best painters—and she knew Feuilly, too, Mme Pontmercy, she can replicate his designs if you like—”

Aurélie came forward, apron-clad and blank-faced. The owner, beaming broadly, left them to speak with another painter.

“Can you tell me what design you want, madame?”

“Oh, I don’t care,” Cosette says, unable to think of anything, and left alone with honesty. “It’s for mourning, that’s all—it must be black. I only thought M. Feuilly—well, I thought he could paint well, and with a pretty design.” And he’d cared about the plight of strangers, and Cosette—well. If she were going to buy a fan at this moment, she wanted it to be from him.

“So he could,” Aurélie said. “He could do many things well. I hear he died well, too, at the Rue de la Chanvrerie."

“Chanvrerie,” Cosette said, startled. “My—” She bit her lip, and felt the heat rush into her face. She’d been about to say her husband fought there! How could she be so foolish? This Aurélie seemed to like Feuilly, so she probably wouldn’t tell tales of someone who had fought on a barricade, and Marius surely wouldn’t get in trouble in any case, but even so, it was better not to say. Cosette chided herself for acting like a stupid young girl, not a married woman with sense and discretion.

Aurélie looked at her, and somehow Cosette felt she suspected. But Aurélie’s face softened a little. Cosette could not bring herself to feel fear.

Instead, she asked, “Mademoiselle, if I may ask you—do you know what happened in Poland after…there was a revolt, wasn’t there? In 1830? How did that end?”

Aurélie looked at her like she was a fool. “It was crushed. Didn’t you hear? Those Russian bastards captured Warsaw in 1831. That’s part of why we have refugees here, that’s why they had to flee their motherland—don’t you pay any attention?”

Cosette opened her mouth, ashamed, but Aurélie blushed. “Forgive me, madame, I shouldn’t have spoken so—”

“No, no,” Cosette said. “It’s—I’m awfully ignorant—”

“Doesn’t your husband explain these things to you?” Aurélie asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“I—no. We don’t speak of such things.” Or she didn’t pay attention when he did speak of them, perhaps. He had spoken of politics, sometimes, in those stunningly happy days in the garden in the rue Plumet.

“Well, you should make him,” Aurélie said. “Otherwise how will you know to be prepared, if he rushes off to fight?”

She _did_ suspect. Cosette blushed. “Never mind,” Aurélie said kindly. “But remember what I’ve said. I’ll paint your fan for you—what was the design you had from Feuilly before? Flowers?” She looked at the blue fan Cosette wordlessly handed over. “I’ll do something similar, in black and gray. I can have it for you next week.”

Cosette thanked her, and went back out into the hot street. She didn’t remember her walk back to number six, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and she was only half paying attention as she slipped past Basque, past Nicolette, without seeking out Marius or grandfather Gillenormand. Well-meaning as they were, she couldn’t bear society right now.

She went straight up to her room and threw herself face-down on the bed, and after a few minutes of lying in silence, she began to sob.

Her cries were muffled by the pillow, at first, but grew louder, and Cosette didn’t hear Nicolette turn the door knob and come in.

“Oh, my poor madame,” Nicolette said. “Why do you weep like this? Is it for your father? Oh, it’s very sad, and he was a good, good man, but you must remember, he is with God, he’s with your mother—”

Cosette clutched the pillow and howled. Yes, she wept for Jean Valjean, the father it turned out she didn’t understand nearly well enough. And for Feuilly, the fan painter she’d barely spoken to, and for Poland, the country she’d never been to, and above all for Fantine her mother, whose name she had just learned.

Nicolette slipped an arm below Cosette and pulled her up, so Cosette’s head rested on Nicolette’s shoulder. Cosette thought dimly that her mother would do this, her mother would comfort her like this if she were here. Fantine.

“Fantine,” she said aloud, into Nicolette’s shoulder. “That was her name. My mother’s.”

“Oh,” Nicolette said, looking surprised. Cosette could guess why. It didn’t sound like a proper name. She wondered, suddenly, what Marius and grandfather Gillenormand would say, if Cosette said she wanted to name her daughter Fantine—but then the thought of having a child made Cosette’s face grow hot, for all she was married, and she stopped thinking of it.

“I don’t know anything else about her. Just that she suffered.” It’s like watching your own mother beaten, Feuilly had said. Had someone beaten Fantine? Betrayed her, abandoned her, misused her? What happened?

“All suffering is healed with the mercy of God,” Nicolette said, running a hand over Cosette’s hair. “Even your mother’s.” Nicolette hesitated before adding, “Even your father’s. I could see he suffered, too, though I don’t know why.”

Cosette drew a long, shaking breath. “Yes. Yes, I must remember that, though I don’t see how it could be healed—but no doubt God can.” It wasn’t truly a comfort, but perhaps it would be one day, if she held to it long enough.

After a moment, she lifted her head off Nicolette’s shoulder. “I want to find out about her. My mother. Someone must know something. I don’t know if she was ever in Paris, but perhaps she was in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Someone must be able to ask questions—though I don’t know if Marius would…but surely he would, how could he object—”

“Don’t tell him,” Nicolette advised. “I know a man who is clever at finding things out. He’s Basque’s cousin. I can take you to him, if you would like.”

Cosette gaped at her. “Oh, but I could never keep anything from Marius.” He was her husband. She loved him. Even if he’d been foolish and mean and conspired with her father to keep them apart, she loved him.

Nicolette looked at her with a smile. “I know, my dear madame, I know—you want to be a loving and obedient wife, yes? But let me tell you something you’ll learn as you grow older. I had to learn this myself. You must obey your husband’s heart, not his words. Men don’t know what they want. They tell you they want something, and then they get angry and sulk when you give it to them. So you must be quiet, and clever, and not tell them everything, and just give them what they truly want, and then all will be well. M. le Baron wants peace and happiness, and he doesn’t want sad memories rising up, does he?”

“I—” Cosette didn’t have an answer.

“I think he does, and you fear asking questions about your mother will bring sadness? Then you must do it quietly. Then you will know, and you can decide to tell him or keep it from him, whichever will make him happier.”

Cosette considered this. Had Marius truly known what he wanted when he let her father go away? She didn’t think so. Marius was sad, and confused. But Cosette had known what she wanted. She wanted her father back. She told him to come live with them, she waited for his visits every day, she sent Nicolette after him persistently when he no longer came. She had known.

“I—how wise you are,” she said, at last. “I think you must be right.” She rose from her bed, and paced the length of the room.

“I also want to help the Polish refugees,” she declared suddenly. “I used to go about on visits to the poor with my father—but I haven’t since the wedding. But it’s time, now, and I can go alone if Marius is busy. Where are most of them living, do you know? I—”

“Perhaps you should have one scheme at a time,” Nicolette said, laughing.

Cosette laughed, too. She supposed she was being silly, but she suddenly wanted to do everything all at once.

“I don’t know why you suddenly thought of the Polish—but my friend Madame Zuchowska is Polish, and she’s told me all about their troubles. It’s grievously sad, my heart breaks whenever I speak to her. I can help you find refugees who need Christian charity. It’s a good thought, a kind thought. And I will speak to Jean-Pierre, Basque’s cousin who I spoke of, and perhaps you’ll learn something of your mother. But now, madame, I think you should rest and perhaps take some coffee. I will bring it up for you.”

Impulsively, Cosette embraced her. “Dear Nicolette,” she said. “Thank you!”

Nicolette gave her an amused look, and patted her shoulder, and left the room. Cosette threw herself back on the bed, this time on her back, staring up at the ceiling. 

She still ached, bitterly. It was like a fist inside her, squeezing her heart in a merciless grip, and she didn’t know how to ease it. Cosette thought again of her mother, that vague, luminous, shining figure high above, watching over her with tenderness. The figure had a name, now, Fantine. A name, but no face, no story, leaving Cosette herself drifting like a flower torn from a bush, floating on an uncaring wind. When her father lived, Cosette had known he knew, at least, and had his reasons for keeping this secret as he kept all the others.

Now no one knew, and Fantine was forgotten, but if the Polish flowers could be saved and passed on through a painted fan, why not Fantine? Why not both? Cosette reached into the purse on the bed, and drew out the pale blue fan. The colors were still fresh, the delicacy of the lines unmarred.

Cosette rose, and washed her face, and noted with satisfaction that her eyes weren’t red this time. She arranged her hair carefully, and went down to meet Nicolette, and take her coffee, and think of what to do next.


End file.
